


when the reckoning arrives

by curtaincall



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cat Aziraphale (Good Omens), Humor, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Loss of Powers, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, References to Shakespeare, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), TRULY gratuitous references to Shakespeare, but "bastard that i want to cuddle" SCREAMS cat to me, but like...it's their own fault, emphasis on the idiots, like we're talking All's Well That Ends Well here people, listen everyone's fursonas for Aziraphale are very valid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: Instead of body-swapping, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to fake their deaths in order to avoid the notice of Heaven and Hell.This goesexactlyas well as you'd think.





	when the reckoning arrives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiminishingReturns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiminishingReturns/gifts).

> This fic is a WEDDING PRESENT for Jess (DiminishingReturns) because I adore her and wish her great happiness.

“So,” Aziraphale said, as they walked into the flat, “what do we do now?”

“What d’you mean?” Crowley asked, letting the door fall closed behind them.

Aziraphale absent-mindedly ran his hand over an orchid. “Well, what’s next? To be done. Now that all that...business is over.”

“You mean the _ apocalypse?” _ Crowley asked. _ “That _business?” 

Aziraphale nodded. “What I mean to say is, everything seems to have sort of...fizzled out, as it were. Not a bang but a whimper, and all that, although in this case the world very much _ didn’t _end.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, “so now we _ relax.” _

Aziraphale frowned, his eyebrows coming together and wrinkling his forehead, and Crowley was seized with the urge to reach over and smooth it out. He didn’t, of course. _ Some _things had certainly changed. Others he wasn’t so sure of.

“Can we, though?” Aziraphale asked. “Relax? Because I don’t know about you, but I have the distinct feeling that even if my _ ultimate _boss doesn’t seem to have minded this turn of events, middle management may feel very differently. And yours, well, I can’t imagine they’re very pleased with you, either.”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, I doubt it, but what’re they going to _ do? _ We’re down one Antichrist, if you hadn’t noticed. Bit difficult to reboot Armageddon without _ that.” _

“I didn’t mean rebooting Armageddon,” Aziraphale said, “I meant more. Personally. What might happen. To you. And me.”

“Ah,” Crowley said. “You think they’ll punish us.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “in _ your _experience, has your side traditionally been eager to forgive and forget?”

“Not my side,” Crowley said, automatically, “but. I see your point.”

“And I did _ not _get the sense that Gabriel was at all pleased with my performance,” Aziraphale continued. “I’m feeling a bit worried, is all, that come tomorrow morning, Heaven and Hell will be knocking on our door, demanding retribution.”

Crowley tried to ignore the frisson that went through him at _ our door, _singular. “So what do you suggest?”

“I think it might be best,” Aziraphale said, “if we, I don’t know. Laid low for a bit.”

“Laid low _ how?” _Crowley asked. “It’s not like turning off location on your phone, they’ll be able to find us. Sense us. Wherever we are.”

_ “Ay,” _ said Aziraphale, _ “there’s the rub.” _

Crowley groaned. “Don’t bring _ him _into this. Solution to everything in Shakespeare is just to fake your own death.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened suddenly. “You don’t think—”

“No,” Crowley said hurriedly, “absolutely _ not. _ I do _ not _ think. How would that even _ work—” _

“No, no, listen,” Aziraphale said, his eyes brightening. “If they thought we’d died—if they each thought someone else had come for us, first, they might just, I don’t know, stop looking.”

Crowley shook his head. “First of all, I can’t _ believe _ you’re seriously suggesting this. It _ never _ works out, even in _ Shakespeare.” _

“It does so,” Aziraphale said, “just because it didn’t in _ Romeo and Juliet _ doesn’t mean it didn’t work in _ other _ plays. _ Much Ado About Nothing—” _

“All right,” Crowley said, “she gets to marry the clod who dumped her based on zero evidence, real happy ending.”

_ “And All’s Well That Ends Well,” _ Aziraphale said triumphantly, “can’t argue that _ that’s _ not a happy ending, it’s _ literally _in the title.”

_ “All’s Well That Ends Well _ is _ terrible,” _ Crowley said, “it’s a comedy that’s not even _ funny.” _

“The plot leaves something to be desired,” Aziraphale admitted, “but, it’s got some lovely poetry.

_ Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie _

_ Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky _

_ Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull _

_ Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.” _

He paused, and Crowley said, half-against his will, _ “What power is it which mounts my love so high, _

_ That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?” _

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said, “you see?”

Crowley made a small involuntary sound. “Uh,” he said, intelligently. “It’s fine. I guess. But,” he said, grasping at the thread of the conversation, “faking our deaths. How would that even _ work? _We can’t Ferris Bueller this, it’s not like they’ll be fooled by an Aziraphale-shaped pillow.” 

“We can’t _ what _this?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nevermind, it’s a film. Not your sort of thing at all. The point is, they’ll be looking for our, our _ natures. _ Our divinity. Or, well, demon-ity. And how do we fake _ that _being dead?”

Aziraphale nodded. “You’re not wrong. But, if we, just, _ didn’t have them. _Our natures, I mean. If we were, for all intents and purposes, human.”

Crowley had heard the word _ mind-boggling _ before, but he’d never quite understood what it meant until now. His mind, accordingly, boggled. “You want to _ become human?” _

“Temporarily!” Aziraphale said, quickly. “Just until, they, you know. Think we’re dead. Stop looking around.”

“And how,” Crowley began, “do you propose—”

“If we just,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully, _ “took them out. _ Externalized them. Got them out of our corporations. I’ve a hunch we’ve both got more than a little humanity in us, after all this time. We’d still be _ us, _deep down. Just, less ethereal. Or occult, as the case may be.”

“Externalized them,” Crowley said. “You know, angel, that’s really rather _ creative _of you.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, looking both pleased and uncomfortable. “If we just. Tried it? Do you think?”

“Right,” said Crowley, trying and failing to conceptualize _ how, _ exactly, they might accomplish this, and then realizing that perhaps it was better just to decide that they _ could, _“well, then, let’s. Try it.”

“Very good,” Aziraphale said, “now, if we just _ concentrate…” _ He screwed his eyes shut, and Crowley followed suit, and thought very hard about _ externalize, externalize, get all that demon out of you— _

After a moment, two distinct pops sounded, and Aziraphale and Crowley opened their eyes to see the large, fluffy white cat and ill-tempered-looking garter snake that had materialized in front of them.

_ “That’s _my entire demonic nature?” Crowley asked, reaching a finger out to stroke the snake. “Thought it’d be more impressive, somehow.”

“Mine’s bigger,” Aziraphale said primly.

“Well, if we’re going _ there,” _ Crowley said, smirking, “mine’s a _ snake _ and yours is a pu—”

“All right, all right,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, “point taken.”

“Well, we’ve got them now,” Crowley said, letting the snake wind itself around his finger, “only problem is, what do we _ do _with them? Can’t very well hang around here, they’ll give us away in a moment. No point externalizing our natures if they just serve as a beacon.”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said, “what we’ve got to do is put them somewhere they won’t be noticed. Where there’s enough supernatural energy to drown them out.”

Crowley sighed, and went to reach for the Bentley’s keys before remembering that they wouldn’t do him much good anymore. “Back to Tadfield, then?”

* * *

They found a small, abandoned cottage on the outskirts of Tadfield. (First, of course, they’d had to _ actually read a bus schedule _ for the first time in either of their extremely long lives, because it turned out that humans, even temporary ones, couldn’t just _ will _routes to change in the most convenient fashion.) 

“This’ll do, I think,” Aziraphale said, and opened the carrier to let the animals out. The cat trotted out first, sniffing the air suspiciously, and when the snake didn’t appear after a few more moments, Crowley stuck his head in the carrier to look for it and found nothing.

“Where’s it gone?” he asked, irritably. “Can’t very well have wandered off, can it, the slats in that carrier were small enough, I made certain.”

“I think I’ve found it,” Aziraphale said, and his voice had a tremor of—_ something, _ not quite amusement but _ something, _that made Crowley’s head whip around even quicker than it normally would’ve. 

“Where?” he asked, looking to where Aziraphale was gesturing and seeing only the cat.

_ “There,” _Aziraphale said, “you’ve got to look more closely—”

And Crowley leaned in a bit and saw, to his immense mortification, that the snake had wound its body around the cat’s neck, like a sort of wriggly collar. As though it had the desperate desire to be close to the cat, by any means necessary, and _ really, _ did it _ have _to be so obvious?

“Erm,” Crowley said, “sorry, I didn’t realize it’d…”

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said, and it definitely _ wasn’t _amusement in his voice now, “I believe the cat’s, um. Purring.”

And Crowley hadn’t been listening for it before, but once he did, he could hear it, the cat’s clear contentment at its passenger.

“Well,” he said, looking at the ground, “good to know _ they’re _happy.”

“I think it’s sweet, actually,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley glanced up at him sharply but failed to find any clues as to what, _ exactly, _ he meant by that. Not to mention, _ they had bigger problems _right now.

“Right,” he said, “so that’s sorted, back to London?”

“Do you think we’d better leave food for them, or anything?”

“They’re the physical manifestations of our supernatural natures, somehow I _ don’t _think they’ll get peckish.”

“Oh very well,” Aziraphale said, reaching down to pet the cat one last time, “I do hope nothing happens to them.”

“It had better not,” said Crowley grimly, “or I’m _ never _letting you forget that this was your idea.”

“Well, I didn’t see _ you _ coming up with any better plans,” Aziraphale snapped, “forgive me for trying to _ think outside the box.” _

Crowley let several retorts dissolve on his tongue. They didn’t have time for this. “Come on,” he said, instead, “next bus leaves in five minutes, we can catch it if we hurry.”

They _ just _ made it, though Crowley realized, upon boarding, that he’d used the last of his money on the fare from London.

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale said, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, “I’ve got the coins from my magic act, here.”

“I _ hate _ this human thing,” Crowley said, taking the coin, “there’s all these things you’ve got to _ remember. Boring _things.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “and, by the way, _ you’re welcome. _ Come to think of it, we’ve both been rather spoiled, haven’t we? Well, it’s only fair, I suppose, that we should have to put up with human inconveniences for a bit, since we _ did _rather spectacularly side with them.”

“You’ve got a strange definition of _ fair,” _Crowley said. Aziraphale just gave him a Look.

* * *

Their first stop on returning to London was the bookshop, or, rather, what had once been the bookshop. 

“Silver lining is,” Crowley said, “charred ruins make rather a good crime scene.” He tried not to think about what it’d been like, earlier—had it really been that same day?—when there’d been blazes all around him, fiery shelves toppling everywhere, and no sign of Aziraphale, no answer to his frantic cries. Well, with any luck, it’d be Heaven searching fruitlessly, come morning, Heaven who were unable to find any trace of Aziraphale. 

Crowley doubted they’d be _ quite _as devastated, but then, that was for the best, wasn’t it?

“I wish it looked more like _ I’d _died,” Aziraphale said, “not just the bookshop.”

Crowley snorted. “Like you’d _ ever _let this place burn down if you were around to stop it.”

Aziraphale just looked at him, and it took Crowley a moment to realize: Heaven had no idea, did they, what the bookshop meant to Aziraphale. What it would mean to see it burned to the ground. 

“I’m glad you know that,” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley heard the unspoken _ you’re the only one who does, _ and thought, not for the first time, of how hopelessly lonely they’d have been without each other, and how incredibly lucky he was that _ he _got to be the one who understood Aziraphale.

“Angel,” he started to say, ignoring the fact that the term wasn’t strictly accurate at the moment, “I—”

But Aziraphale either didn’t hear, or didn’t want to, because he said, speaking over Crowley, “What if we left a _ clue?” _

“We’re not in an Agatha Christie novel,” said Crowley, “they’re not going to be going over the place with a magnifying glass—”

“Magnifying glass is Sherlock Holmes,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to his neck, “Agatha Christie’s detectives tend to use more psychological methods.”

“That’s not what I—_ what _are you doing?” Crowley’s brain skidded to a halt, because Aziraphale was taking off his bowtie, adjusting his newly-unbuttoned collar to show the slightest peek of clavicle.

“I’m forging some evidence,” Aziraphale said, and, _ fuck, _ he was just going to _ leave _that button undone, wasn’t he? “I don’t suppose you’ve got any matches?”

Crowley fumbled in his pockets for a lighter, grateful to have something to do. “Here—you’re not _ burning _that, are you?”

“More _ singing, _really,” Aziraphale said, cheerfully, taking the lighter and holding it up to the tie, “got to leave it recognizable, after all. Ah—there we go.” 

They watched as the edges of the tie curled up, the flame eating in until Aziraphale apparently decided that was enough and dropped it on the floor, grinding it under his heel to douse the fire. 

“Do you think,” Crowley suggested, hesitantly, because he didn’t _ want _to see this, he really didn’t— “maybe the overcoat? Too? To make it a touch more obvious?” 

“That’s a good idea,” Aziraphale said, readily shrugging out of the overcoat, “Gabriel knows about _ clothes, _you see, rather likes them, I think, so I’m hoping he’ll notice.”

“Right,” Crowley said, watching from behind his glasses as Aziraphale held the lighter up to the coat. He started to light one spot, then stopped, and with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, chose another, and Crowley realized that the first spot had been the shoulder he’d miracled clean a few days ago.

“Very well,” said Aziraphale, when the overcoat had been sufficiently burned, and they’d placed it and the bowtie in a strategic location. “Your turn, I expect.”

“My turn,” Crowley agreed, “and unless you’ve got any more coins, I think we’d better walk.”

They made it back to Crowley’s flat a little shy of midnight, having stopped in at a church on the way so that Aziraphale could nip in and purloin some holy water using a mug he’d salvaged from the bookshop while Crowley stood guard outside. 

“You’d better stand back,” Aziraphale said, holding the mug as far away from Crowley as possible.

“Would it even _ work?” _Crowley asked. “In this state?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Best not to find out, I think.”

“Mmm, fair point,” Crowley said, and hopped up on a nearby chair while Aziraphale poured the holy water onto the floor, far enough away from the puddle of ex-Ligur that it, hopefully, would be clear that there had been _ two _demons destroyed. 

“Coat?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to where Ligur’s still lay. “Or, actually, all your clothes, yes?”

Crowley stopped in the middle of shrugging off his coat. “You want me to _ take off all my clothes?” _

“No,” Aziraphale said, patiently, although Crowley wondered whether there might not be a slight flush warming his cheeks, “I want you to _ go to the closet _ and _ get some clothes _ to put in the holy water, Crowley, _ really.” _

“Right, well, your loss,” Crowley said, and walked very very quickly to the closet in order to hide the doubtless-not-so-slight flush that _ he _could feel rising to his face.

“Now then,” Aziraphale said, once Crowley had come back with a handful of randomly selected articles of clothing, “let’s just…” He dropped each item onto the puddle, then reached down to make sure that the water had permeated through, enough to prevent any Hellish visitor from touching them safely.

“Now what?” Crowley asked, when he’d finished.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, frowning, “I expect, we wait. For them to come.”

“Wait _ here?” _

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “I could. Wait here, I mean. Hell won’t be looking for me, they’ll want _ you. _And you’d better go to the bookshop, and keep an eye out for Heaven. And then we can, erm, rendezvous.”

“You’d better take this,” Crowley said, digging through a drawer for an old flip phone he’d kept out of nostalgia. “I should be in the contacts, I think, my current number, text me once they’ve come by and I’ll let you know when your lot have and then we can meet up. Head back to Tadfield, get our, uh, our _ natures _ back in us, _ internalized, _and then all’s well. That ends well. Y’know.”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale said, taking the flip phone gingerly from him. “Let me see how this—oh, yes, it’s not so very different from a small computer, is it?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know _ how _ they work, do I? Just that they _ do.” _

“Right, then,” Aziraphale said, squinting at the phone, “the letters are _ awfully _ small, aren’t they, and so _ blurry, _ how does anyone _ read—” _

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, a bell clanging in his head, “I think you need _ glasses.” _

Aziraphale looked up from the phone and blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, beginning to pace back and forth without really realizing it, “I expect your corporation always did, and you just, you never _ actually, _ because you only wore them for the _ aesthetic, _didn’t you?”

_ “Look,” _ Aziraphale said, flipping the phone shut with more force than was probably necessary, “I have a certain _ image _ that I like to maintain, it’s part of the _ job…” _

“Well,” Crowley said, “you’ve gone Method, now, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale settled his glasses on his nose with immense delicacy, then lowered them slightly, the better to fix Crowley with a disapproving look. “Speaking of glasses,” he said, “hadn’t you better…” He gestured towards the pile of holy water-soaked clothing.

Crowley grimaced. “Right, not a bad idea,” he said, and pulled off his sunglasses.

_ “Oh,” _Aziraphale said, and took a step back.

“What?” Crowley asked. “It’s my face, you’ve seen it before, hasn’t changed much.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head gently, “no, my dear, your _ eyes.” _

Crowley turned, glanced into a mirror, and apparently the snake hadn’t just walked (crawled?) off with his demonic nature, it’d taken his _ eyes, _ too, because the ones staring back at him now were brown and round-pupilled and _ human, _and, yeah, he could see why Aziraphale was disconcerted. 

“Right,” he said, fumbling in his jacket, “well, not to worry—” 

But, of course, there wasn’t another pair of sunglasses in his jacket, because he’d never actually _ put _ one there. They just _ were, _ when he needed them to be, and now, of course, they _ weren’t. _

“Uh,” he said, not able to handle the way Aziraphale was looking at him, like he was a stranger, instead of—well, anyway, it didn’t bear thinking about, he was going to fix it. “Hang on,” he said, and went into the bedroom, rummaged through the drawers: surely there was a pair in there somewhere, an old one, that he could—ah. Yes. The red-tinted wrap-around pair that he’d come across in the Eighties but never actually worn. Well, desperate times, and all that.

When he re-emerged, Aziraphale gave him a look that somehow managed to be puzzled and appalled and grateful all at once, which, well, they could deal with that later, couldn’t they?

“Off to the bookshop, then,” he said, and nodded at Aziraphale. “Try not to burn the place down while I’m—oh, _ fuck, _I’m sorry, angel, I didn’t mean—”

But Aziraphale was smiling, a little, and it might’ve been a sad smile but it _ was _ a smile. “Oh, go on,” he said, “before your foot gets _ permanently _lodged in your mouth, expect it’d be a bit difficult to get it out without a miracle.”

“Right,” Crowley said, relieved, “well, then, I…” He trailed off, not sure what to say. What _ did _ one say, in this situation? _ Good night? Good luck? I love you so fiercely that it frightens me? _

“See you tomorrow,” he said, at last, and Aziraphale opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it, and nodded.

“See you tomorrow,” he replied.

* * *

It worked, of course. It was a stupid plan, Crowley still thought that, there was no doubting that, but it _ worked, _ he’d watched Uriel scowl at the ruins of the bookshop and examine the bowtie before taking it back with her to Heaven, muttering something under her breath about _ knew we shouldn’t have listened to that maggoty idiot, _ had felt relief crash over him in a wave at the thought that Aziraphale was safe, at last, really _ safe. _

He got a very badly spelled text message a few hours later, informing him (he _ thought _ , it was really _ very _ badly spelled, but then again even _ he’d _never gotten the hang of that whole multi-tap bit) that much the same thing had happened back at his flat, and that unfortunately Hastur had taken the “snugassless” away with him, apparently as evidence. Crowley texted back confirmation that all had gone well at the bookshop, along with a place to meet for brunch, and received a string of letters back that presumably signified assent.

Aziraphale had arrived before him, and was sitting in the waiting area, fiddling with the flip phone. He looked up, when Crowley walked in, and not that Crowley was keeping score, or anything, but it _ had _ to be some kind of a sign that even without heightened angelic perception, Aziraphale was still _ aware _of him, attuned to him.

Crowley nodded at him, and strolled up to the hostess, and said, “Table for two, please.”

“It’s a forty-five minute wait,” the hostess said, and Crowley went to snap his fingers and make it _ not _a forty-five minute wait before realizing that he couldn’t do that, at the moment.

“It’s no use,” Aziraphale said, wearily, from his seat, “I’ve put in our names, we may as well…”

“Look,” Crowley said, smiling in a way that he hoped was both friendly and vaguely threatening, “my friend and I would _ really _appreciate it if the wait could be reduced. A bit.” 

_ “Look,” _ the hostess repeated in a tone that sounded suspiciously like mockery, “I bet you would, and I bet so would all the _ other _people who are waiting.”

“I just,” Crowley said, and wished he had money (could you bribe people, for this sort of thing? You could the last time he’d tried, in the Thirties; he didn’t know if that had changed), “I’d be so—”

“I’m not making exceptions for some arrogant Bono knockoff,” the hostess snapped.

_ “Bono,” _ Crowley repeated, horrified, spitting out the _ B, _ “I beg your _ fucking _pardon—”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, getting up, and taking Crowley’s arm, and leading him gently out of the restaurant. “Let’s go, dear.”

“Bono,” Crowley said, again, taking off his sunglasses in disgust, “I am _ so _ much taller than _ Bono—” _

“I can’t remember,” Aziraphale said, in a calming tone, “is he ours? I think he must be.”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno, I rather thought he was _ ours, _takes a lot of work to make charity look that unappealing.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale. “I think we’d best just go back to Tadfield, yes? We can eat afterwards.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Well, yes, but I’m also eager to not be...inconvenienced, any longer.”

_ “I’m _hungry,” Crowley said, half-surprised to realize it, “but I’ll just, we can go in a shop—”

He spotted a likely-looking establishment, nearby, and ducked in. Aziraphale followed.

“Want one?” Crowley asked, waving an energy bar.

Aziraphale shuddered slightly. “I’ll wait till we can have a _ proper _meal, thank you,” he said.

“Come on,” Crowley said, wheedling, “there’s got to be something up to your standards, you’d really better eat, humans get so _ weak _when they don’t—”

“Oh, all right,” said Aziraphale, smiling a little, and wandered over to a nearby display of fruit. “This’ll do.”

Crowley looked at him suspiciously. “An _ apple?” _

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, innocently, “should tide me over nicely, I think.”

“Hrm,” said Crowley, but bought him the apple nevertheless, along with the energy bar, and tried not to watch him eat it. Well, not to _ obviously _watch him eat it.

* * *

One Uber ride later, and they were back in Tadfield, at the cottage where they’d left their divine and demonic natures, looking at an empty sitting room. And then an empty kitchen. And a series of empty bedrooms, and an empty bathroom, and an empty back garden, and— 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, rustling the curtains for the fifth time, “they’ve _ gone.” _

Crowley flung open a closet, found it empty, and threw back his head, wanting desperately to hiss and finding that he, for once, _ couldn’t. _ “They _ can’t _ have gone,” he said, picking up the carrier, as though the animals might somehow have been hiding underneath, “I closed the door, I locked it, I _ know _ I did, I made specially sure, because usually I _ don’t, _ they just lock _ themselves, _ but I was _ clever _ and I thought, I’ll _ double-check, _ make sure the door’s actually locked, wouldn’t want the blasted _ animals getting loose.” _He could hear his voice going increasingly higher as he went on, ending in a near-screech.

Aziraphale winced. “I’m sure you _ did _ lock the door,” he said, placatingly, “but that doesn’t change the _ facts. _Which are that our externalized natures appear to have, well, escaped.”

Crowley let out an aggravated sigh. “I don’t _ understand…” _And then something clicked in his brain, and he broke off, and whistled, long and low.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well,” said Crowley, caught between admiration and frustration and sheer _ panic, _ “they’re supernatural, aren’t they? Expect they didn’t need a door. At all. Just toddled on off, they have, and He— _ no one _knows where to, and we haven’t got any way of finding them, have we?”

“I don’t _ think _so,” Aziraphale admitted, “I—I don’t think so. I hadn’t thought—”

“You hadn’t _ thought _ a lot of things,” Crowley snarled, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry, sorry, that’s…’s rude, I shouldn’t...no need to be _ rude. _I hadn’t thought of it either, had I?”

“But this was my _ idea,” _ Aziraphale said, and Crowley heard the beginnings of what might well end up being a full-blown _ wail. _ “If I hadn’t insisted that we _ externalize, _ we’d never _ be _ in this situation, and now we’re _ never _ going to find them, and we’ll be _ stuck _ like this, _ forever, _ and we’ll _ die, _ and it’ll be all my _ fault, _ and…” He trailed off, looking on the verge of tears. “Crowley, I’ve got such a _ headache.” _

“C’mon,” Crowley said, well-aware that Aziraphale wasn’t _ trying _to guilt-trip him, but feeling exceedingly guilt-tripped nevertheless, “it’s not—we’ll figure it out. Always do.”

“And my _ eyes,” _ Aziraphale continued, seeming not to hear him, “they’re all _ heavy…” _

“Angel,” Crowley said, realizing, “you’re _ sleepy.” _

_ “Sleepy?” _

“Yeah,” Crowley said, forgetting, for a moment, about snakes and cats and externalized inner natures, “you’ve stayed up all night, haven’t you, and for the time being you’re _ human, _ with human bodily needs, and you’re...you’re getting _ cranky.” _

Aziraphale glared at him blearily. “I am not _ cranky.” _

“Sure you are,” Crowley said, nearly blown off his feet by the wave of fondness that crashed through him, “you need a _ nap.” _

“We haven’t got _ time, _ this is a _ crisis—” _

“Look,” Crowley said, firmly, taking Aziraphale by the arm and guiding him up the stairs, meeting only token resistance, “we’re dealing with two beings with who _ knows _ what kind of powers, yeah? I mean, _ ours, _ obviously, but they could’ve fucked off to Aruba or Siberia or another _ galaxy, _ for all we know, we can’t just wander the streets throwing up ‘Lost Eldritch Cat’ posters, we need a _ plan, _and you’re in no fit state to come up with a decent one right now, and I’m definitely not doing it without you, so. Naptime.”

They reached the doorway to one of the bedrooms, and he let Aziraphale’s arm go. Aziraphale teetered on the threshold for a moment, as though he might fall back against Crowley, but lurched the other way, eventually, and stumbled the few steps across the room to fall onto the bed.

“I’ll come back in a bit,” Crowley said, stifling a yawn of his own.

“Oh—” Aziraphale propped himself up on one elbow, awkwardly— “oh, I thought—that is, I hoped—oh, _ bother.” _

“What?” Crowley asked, taking a step into the room.

“Can’t seem to do _ words _correctly,” Aziraphale said, blinking slowly, “but I. It’s been a while, since I’ve slept. Don’t quite like the idea.”

“You’ll get the hang of it, quick enough,” Crowley said.

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, in that tone that meant _ that’s not the issue, _and sighed. “Do you think,” he said, quietly, “that perhaps. You could stay. Just until I fall asleep. Might help, that’s all.”

Crowley’s stomach swooped. “Erm,” he managed to say. “I...yeah. If you think it’ll help. Course.”

Aziraphale made a small contented noise and flopped back down. 

Crowley walked towards the bed, slowly, realizing there was no chair in the room, _ why was there no chair? _

He reached the bed, and stood for a moment, at odds and ends, until Aziraphale looked up again, and said, yawning, “Isn’t there room?”

“No,” said Crowley, “I mean, yeah, there is, I was just…” He shook his head, and sat down on the bed, carefully maintaining as much distance as possible between him and Aziraphale, who promptly undid all his work by wriggling closer, eyes half-closed, so that his head was practically in Crowley’s lap.

_ Lady, shall I lie in your lap? _

_ No, my lord. _

_ I mean, my head upon your lap? _

But no one faked their death in _ Hamlet, _did they?

Crowley chanced a look down at Aziraphale, whose eyes were now completely closed, whose breathing had slowed to a regular rise and fall. He looked—vulnerable, almost, more so than Crowley had ever seen him before. Crowley looked at the slight part of Aziraphale’s lips as he breathed, at the shadow his long eyelashes cast on his cheek, at the curl of his hair against the nape of his neck. He let his own eyes close—he’d been up all night, too, after all, was just as tired as Aziraphale, if more practiced at sleeping. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s heart—his _ human _heart—beating, from the few points where their bodies touched, could feel the pulse of him, could lose himself in the rhythm. 

* * *

He woke up to Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Oh—” Crowley said, and cracked open his eyes, “‘m sorry, angel, meant to stay up with you, really did—”

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said, “you must’ve needed the sleep just as much as I did.”

Crowley opened his eyes all the way. He’d apparently slipped down, while sleeping, to be flat on his back, his head resting on a pillow instead of the headboard. Aziraphale, conversely, had sat up, and was resting on his knees, now, looking down at Crowley, a faint smile on his face. He’d never done up the button on his shirt, and Crowley could see the hollow at the base of Aziraphale’s neck, the jutting edge of his clavicle.

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to take his hand off his shoulder. He didn’t.

“I,” Crowley said, his mind still in the liminal space between dreams and waking, still groggy enough not to know what was or wasn’t a bad idea, “I’m glad you asked me. To watch you. Because—” and he was gaining enough consciousness, now, to know that this _ was _quite probably a bad idea, but his brain hadn’t yet caught up to his mouth (or his heart)— “normally, y’know, you wouldn’t. Need that. But now…”

“Now I’m human,” Aziraphale said. “For the time being, that is. But I’m glad you were here. To watch me.”

“It’s that,” Crowley said, all jumbled up, “that you _ trust _me. Need me. Well. For the time being.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, softly, _ “that’s _not temporary.”

Crowley, who had been avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes, out of a half-baked sense of self-preservation, looked into them, horribly aware of the fact that his _ own _eyes must have looked completely wrong, while Aziraphale’s remained so dearly familiar. 

Aziraphale at last lifted his hand off of Crowley’s shoulder, reached up for his face, let his fingers brush Crowley’s jaw. And Crowley wasn’t tired at all, anymore, he was wide awake, _ alive _in a way he’d never felt before, all his dull human senses coming alive in a riot of feeling, a million nerve endings at once.

The reality of where they were, _what _they were, at the moment, slammed into Crowley with a force that knocked the breath out of his lungs. Because: they were more fragile now than they had ever been, more vulnerable to the _thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—why _couldn’t he stop thinking in Shakespeare? And they were more _alike, _now, too, than they had ever been, not, presently, an angel and a demon, no opposing natures inside them any longer. And it was the combination of the impermanence of their human forms, the feeling that they no longer had centuries, millennia, all the time in the world, and the bridging, however temporarily, of the gap between them—it was both those things that gave Crowley the courage to reach his own hands up, and hold Aziraphale’s face, and kiss him.

Aziraphale tasted like the memory of something found and lost long ago, like a future echo that Crowley had spent his whole life hopelessly striving to reach. And the reality was, impossibly, sweeter than the dream, because Aziraphale was kissing him back, awkwardly at first, then, abruptly, not awkwardly at all. He was still on his knees, Crowley still on his back, but Aziraphale swung one leg over so that he was straddling Crowley on the bed, kissing his mouth, his neck, half-frantically, as though he felt the same urgency as Crowley. Crowley nuzzled into the spot where Aziraphale’s shirt collar lay open, breathing him in, the scent of him, feeling with exquisite awareness every place their bodies were touching. 

And Crowley _ burned. _ He was a fire, a furnace, an autoclave, a supernova, heat and pressure building up inside of him to explosion point. 

He pulled away from Aziraphale, and sat up. 

“Is something—what’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, withdrawing from him hastily, retreating to his own side of the bed. His lips were swollen, must’ve been as tender as Crowley’s own now were, and a ruddy flush stained his pale skin. “I thought that you...when you…”

Crowley sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his hammering heart. “No, no, I—nothing’s wrong. I only, I just—” _ why _could he never find words, when he needed them— “you’re so…” He looked at Aziraphale, at his rumpled hair, the way his eyebrows had drawn together in puzzlement, and felt, suddenly, the insufficiency of anything he could possibly say or do.

“This vessel,” Crowley said, “it can’t contain—it can’t hold—a thousand human bodies, a thousand human lifetimes, couldn’t do it, I don’t know if anything could.”

“Could contain what?”

“This,” Crowley said, and gestured hopelessly between them, “everything that I—” 

Aziraphale drew closer, again, and Crowley didn’t move away, he couldn’t, their bodies, their souls, were magnets, pulled inexorably together. When Aziraphale kissed him again, it was slow, and lingering, and somehow even more arousing than the hailstorm that had come before.

“We’re not human,” Aziraphale said, against his mouth, “we’re _ not, _we’re going to figure this out.”

Crowley nodded dumbly, and Aziraphale, apparently satisfied, went back to kissing him, and Crowley forgot about being human or demon or angel or _ anything _ besides the taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin, the sound of his breath, the movement of his hips... 

* * *

The hollowed glass of his desire crashed around them, fractured into innumerable shards, and he released a shallow breath, and fell still.

* * *

Crowley looked out the window. The sun was setting outside, and the sky glowed golden. 

Next to him, Aziraphale was straightening his clothing, buttoning his waistcoat back up, patting down his hair. Crowley noticed that the top button of his shirt remained undone, and smiled.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, his mouth curving into a tentative smile of its own.

Crowley, unable to articulate the hundred swirling thoughts that filled his head, leaned in and kissed him, as gently as he knew how. 

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, when they’d separated, “I see your point.”

“I’m a bit better at _ actions _ than _ words,” _Crowley admitted.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “talking of action. However...pleasant...this interlude may have been—”

_ “Pleasant?” _Crowley said, before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale blushed. “Very well, however _ revelatory, _ however _ transcendent, _ however—” He broke off. “Oh, _ damn _ you, Crowley, you know perfectly well that we seem to have hurtled right on past divine ecstasy and into something _ I _ don’t have words for either, _ must _you make me spell it out for you?”

Crowley, who hadn’t known anything of the sort, let out a weak sort of gurgle and shook his head.

_ “So,” _ Aziraphale said, his cheeks fairly _ flaming, _ “as I was _ saying, _ we need to take action. We need a plan. To find our _ natures. _ Because I flatly _ refuse _ to remain all _ human _ and _ breakable_. Particularly now.”

“Right,” Crowley said, attempting, with great effort, to corral his thoughts back from the golden pasture where they’d been frolicking around in glee, throwing up confetti, “well, the whole reason we externalized them was so we wouldn’t be sniffed out, right? Seems to me we ought to find someone who’s got the ability to track ‘em down. All...supernaturally.”

_ “Who, _though?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said, “but we’re certainly not going to find them in _ here, _so.”

Aziraphale stood up. “Point taken.”

They left the cottage—Crowley took a stupidly sentimental glance back at it as they went—and walked towards the village. Aziraphale appeared to be deep in thought, formulating—hopefully—a plan that would save them from the consequences of their previous plan. As they approached the road, he looked up from the ground, and over at Crowley, and promptly stepped directly into the path of an oncoming bicycle. 

Crowley, whose reaction time was significantly slower at present than it usually was, barely managed to yank Aziraphale out of the way to avoid a full-on collision. Nevertheless, the cyclist swerved, and lost balance, and fell to the ground.

“Oh, _ dear,” _Aziraphale said, “oh, what—”

The cyclist picked herself up off the ground, dusted off her skirts, and turned to them. “That was—_ oh. _ It’s _ you two.” _

“Book-girl!” Crowley said, realizing. “Haven’t learned to wear a helmet yet, have you? Or to stop crashing into people?”

_ “I _ was trying to get out of _ his _way,” the book girl began, and then stopped. “Huh. You two are...different.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other. Was it that _ obvious _that they’d—

“Your _ auras,” _ she continued. “They’re all. Dull. Dim. Before they were, they were _ huge, _ and _ bright, _and almost…”

“Inhuman?” Aziraphale suggested, helpfully.

“Yeah,” the girl said. “Exactly.”

Aziraphale brightened. “My dear young lady,” he began, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember if we ever got your name—”

“Anathema Device,” she said, and stuck out a hand. “I’d say _ pleasure to meet you, _but, you know, it really wasn’t. Either time.”

Aziraphale made a sound of acquiescence. “My dear Miss Device,” he began again, “do you think you could possibly _ find _ our auras? Our old ones, I mean. The _ inhuman _ones.”

Crowley nodded, catching on. “If, say, they’d gotten separated from us. Somehow. And we didn’t know where they’d gone.”

“They can’t have gotten _ separated,” _Anathema began, and then stopped. “Or, I mean. Who’s to say, at this point. I’ve seen enough weird stuff this week.”

“A very broadminded attitude, I must say,” Aziraphale said. “Do you think you could, then? If you tried? We would really be _ most _grateful.”

“Yeah,” Anathema said, “uh, come on, we’re almost to my cottage.” She picked up the bicycle from off the road. “You don’t think you could...fix it? Again?”

Crowley’s hand moved upwards automatically before he remembered. “Uh. Sorry. Not at the moment.”

_ “If _you should happen to find our auras, though,” Aziraphale said, quickly, “we might be able to.”

Anathema shot them both a suspicious look, muttered something under her breath about _ Agnes didn’t warn about this bit, _and took her bicycle by the handlebars, wheeling it alongside her as she walked.

In the kitchen of the cottage, Anathema moved around, gathering ingredients together, while Aziraphale sat on a chair and Crowley, who didn’t feel much like sitting, hovered anxiously behind him. 

“All right,” she said, at last. “Uh, here goes…”

Aziraphale reached up and took hold of Crowley’s hand, squeezing it gently. Crowley bent over him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, leaning down so their faces were at the same level. 

Anathema drew some symbols Crowley didn’t recognize, and muttered a few words.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, eagerly. “Did it work?”

Anathema snorted. “Is this some kind of practical joke? Because if it _ is, _I’ll be honest, I don’t get it.”

“Can’t you find them?” Crowley asked.

Anathema raised her eyebrows, marched to the back door, and flung it open.

Aziraphale and Crowley followed, and looked out into the garden.

A much dirtier version of the white cat looked back at them, and meowed.

“For _ fuck’s _sake,” Crowley said, under his breath. “Are they both—”

The cat, as if in response, rolled over onto its belly, and began purring, and revealed the snake, curled into a coil next to it. 

Crowley heard a strange wheezing noise coming from next to him, and looked over in alarm.

Aziraphale was bent in two, laughing so hard that he wasn’t even properly making noise. “Oh, _ my,” _ he said, straightening up, and shaking off the last few giggles. “Oh, that is. That is _ good.” _

Crowley let out a relieved half-laugh, half-sigh, and strode quickly over to pick up the cat, which gave a few half-hearted scratches and then subsided back into purring. He handed the cat over to Aziraphale, who was still wiping a tear away from his eye, and reached down for the snake, which wrapped itself eagerly around his wrist.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, soberly, “shall we?”

“Let’s,” Crowley said, and closed his eyes, and thought very hard about _ internalizing. _

When he re-opened them, the snake had gone, and he felt—_ himself, _again, in a way he hadn’t for the past day. 

“Do you know what?” said Anathema, from behind them. “I’m just going to pretend that this _ didn’t _ happen, because frankly I don’t think I _ want _to know.”

“That seems wise,” Aziraphale said, straightening his waistcoat. “Oh, and I believe your bicycle—” he snapped his fingers— “should be quite all right, again.”

“Thank you,” said Anathema, suspiciously. “Can I, uh. Can I help you with anything else?”

“Do you know,” said Aziraphale, beaming at Crowley with rapturous glory, “I believe we’re _ completely _well, at the moment.”

“Yeah,” Crowley managed, grinning back. “Uh. Don’t need a thing.”

* * *

So there they were, walking back into Crowley’s flat, and once again, everything had changed, and also nothing had.

“I have to ask,” Crowley said, letting the door fall closed behind them, “if what happened, if it was just because we were human. Then. Because there wasn’t any difference, anymore, in our natures. If,” he hastened to say, “if that’s the case, I mean, I understand, completely, I do, I just—”

Aziraphale shook his head, and Crowley shut up. “No,” Aziraphale said, softly, “it wasn’t that. It _ can’t _ have been. Didn’t you see, the cat, and the snake, the bits of ourselves that should have been _ most _ diametrically opposed—they stayed together. _ Happily. _ Which I think ought to prove,” he continued, stepping in closer to Crowley, “that _ every _part of me, angelic and otherwise, loves you.”

“Mmmph,” Crowley said, and closed the gap between them. “I love you,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands, “Every part of me.”

Aziraphale wrapped his own hands around Crowley’s, and smiled. “Well, then,” he said, “now _ that’s _ settled, I believe there are a whole _ host _ of new possibilities that have just been opened up by the fact that we _ aren’t _presently human.”

“D’you know, angel,” Crowley said, “I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea.” 

**Author's Note:**

> there is a bit in here that i ripped off from _ Busman's Honeymoon _ and if you find it please tell me so that we can be wed at once
> 
> Title is from "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats which is a very "avoiding-punishment-by-Heaven-and-Hell" song but someone on Spotify pointed out that it's also about Agnes Nutter which is very valid as well.


End file.
